remember
by redremembrance
Summary: The Avengers hear about Frank Castle. Steve, Nat, Sam, Tony, Frank, Matt, Amy, Paige. Others to come.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Steve Rogers saw Frank Castle, the man was staggering backwards at the edge of a rooftop in Queens, covered in someone else's blood and heedless of the fall just inches behind him.

He had killed a whole gang today. They had come for him. Come and come and come and he had filled them with bullets.

Tony, ever too lackadaisical, had texted Steve.

 _So. This dude in Queens. Should we do something about him?_

Steve had frowned and asked Nat to clarify, and she'd briefed him—former Marine, damn good shot, responsible for the death of too many assholes to count.

She'd sounded like she admired him.

But now, standing on the rooftop across from the man, it was not admiration Steve felt for the man, but pity. He was as broken as they came, this one, and Steve knew broken.

Steve heard the others call out to him, but he held up his hand, fist closed.

Castle's eyes focused on him, the M-16 hanging from one bleeding hand. It was a heavy rifle to be holding with one hand, but strength was not something this man lacked, that much Steve knew. "I recognize a soldier when I see one." Castle almost smiled at Steve.

"Stay back," Steve said softly, and he did not have to look at Sam and Nat to know they would listen. He did shoot Wanda a glance, and the red threaded through her fingers, waiting.

Waiting.

Castle's lips twisted, and he waved the rifle vaguely. "You afraid of me?" his voice was the growl, the rasp that was so familiar to Steve.

He had led a hundred men like these.

Lost as many, over the years.

Steve stepped forward, palms towards the man before him. "Should I be, son?"

Castle's grin was crooked, as broken as his staggering body. The gun inched higher. "You come to take me in?" he asked. It sounded like a plea. "Or to take me down?"

Steve shook his head. "Here to take you home." The man was steel-nerved and stone, but Steve caught the tremor, faint as a shadow, that flicked through the man's body at the word _home_.

Frank Castle raised the gun, a tired movement he had done a thousand times before. "They tell me you're just like a god, _captain_ ," he said. "Tell me." He swayed on his feet. "Can gods bleed?"

"Yes." Steve was inches from the barrel now. "But only if the gun is loaded." He bent the barrel, metal groaning as Steve twisted it towards the concrete beneath them.

Castle faltered. "I remember men like you," he said. He grinned, and blood leaked over his teeth and down his chin. "Soldiers. Marines. The dead. I remember"—

And Steve caught him when he fell.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a pinprick of light.

The first thing Frank Castle sees.

Consciousness, returning.

He waits, holds his body still. He doesn't remember much after the third bullet shredded his side, so whoever has him—they can't know he's awake.

At least not until he's ready to fight.

He keeps his breath steady, even, tells his heart to slow—but it's unnecessary precaution, now. In the early days, war made his heart race.

Even, maybe, made him feel fear.

It has been years since war was anything but second nature. It has been years since he felt fear, true fear.

Perhaps it has been years since he felt anything at all but—

Well.

It takes him a moment to realize his wrists, hands are unencumbered. No chains? Not even a pair of damn handcuffs?

Frank Castle opens his eyes, because now, _now_ he feels something, if it is only a vague sense of surprise at how much his enemies underestimated him.

He will make them bleed for it. But—

It's a small room, well lit, neither hospital nor prison cell, and beside him is a man he recognizes. The man meets Frank's cold stare with his own unperturbed gaze.

"Who the hell are you?" Frank demands, though he knows, he knows, even as memory flashes through him as sure as the pain that now, finally, floods his wounded body. He suppresses a groan, and the man's sharp eyes narrow slightly.

"Easy," the man says when Frank tries to sit up. "I'm Steve. You got hurt pretty bad."

Frank snorts, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It hurts to move, _fuck_ , of course it does, but it hurts less than staying still.

The man moves, and that void in Frank's chest opens wider.

 _Fight_ , it echoes. _Give me a fucking reason_.

Steve doesn't. "Half of New York is looking for you," he says, and then he hesitates as if considering something. "We moved you to an Avengers safehouse. I'm not going to make you stay, but you can lay low here if you want to."

Frank stands, just to prove that he can. "Avengers," he growls. "On the street, they call you gods."

Steve lifts a single eyebrow.

 _Can gods bleed?_

Frank remembers asking the question now, and damn him, what is wrong with him that he can't stop calling the man in front of him a god?

"I usually just go by Steve."

Frank's laugh is half-groan. "And sometimes by Captain," he said. "Some fucking soldier, isn't that right? Fighting the good fight?"

Steve smiles, and then he stands, too. Frank is not a small man, but Steve—Steve towers over him.

Frank imagines what it would be like to face him in a fight, to strike and be unable to break.

"Are you staying?" Steve's voice has a hard note in it, and jerks Frank to attention.

"You aren't going to make the choice for me?" Frank staggers, one hand snapping to his aching, aching side. "You seem like the kind who gives orders."

Steve catches him when he staggers again, and Frank hates him for it.

"Only to my own, Marine," he says quietly. "Are you?"

Frank shakes off his hand. "I'm the one who does what you can't," he says, and the words curl in his throat, hard and sharp. "I'm not anyone's to order around."

"I agree," Steve says crisply. "So it's your choice. You can stay here and sleep. Dinner will be downstairs in an hour. You can walk out of here and take the car Tony has back to the city. You can come down the hall and meet the others."

Frank staggers again, reaching out a still-bloody hand to brace himself against the wall.

This time, Steve makes no move to help him stand, but it looks like it costs him. Watching and not helping. Seeing a man fall when he could have caught him.

"Why am I here?" Frank meets his gaze.

Steve sighs. "Castle," he says. "It looked like you could use a friend."

And then Steve walks past him out of the room, and Frank draws in a shuddering breath.

He'd taken bullets before, but this wound, this was just a flesh wound and still it left him breathless. Ribs probably cracked, too. Might as well take the damn hospitality they offered, so long as they weren't keeping him here.

He glanced out the window. Night was falling, but he could see he was on the second floor—not a bad jump down if it came to that—and there was tree cover nearby. Upstate New York, probably.

He could survive that.

With a sigh, Frank lowered himself onto the bed. The wrap around his ribs was tight, but he was grateful for the constriction, at least for now.

One sleep, he told himself.

And then he'd leave these gods behind in their castle. Leave to find his war, to bleed.

Always, to bleed.


	3. Chapter 3

Castle was still in his hospital room an hour later when Steve joined the others in the long hall that occasionally functioned as a dining room.

Nat was leaning against the window, her phone idly in here hand. "Is Trigger Finger joining us?" she asked.

Clint was perched on the window seat, back against the wall, and he grinned up at her. "You sound so impressed whenever you talk about him."

Nat's eyes flickered. "No," she said, and offered no explanation.

"Bruce is making dinner." Clint's gaze shifted to Steve, unbothered as usual by Nat's curtness. "I think Peter's helping."

Steve's shoulders stiffened. "The kid's here?"

"The kid is always here," Tony cut in from the doorway. "And might I remind you, it was your call to bring the raging psychopath into our home."

 _Our_.

The words were jagged, deep, loaded with a longing Tony probably wasn't aware of.

Steve sighed.

"I'll bring the raging psychopath his dinner," Clint said, standing and stretching. "If you don't want him meeting the kid."

"Who am I meeting?" Peter asked brightly from just behind Tony, just as a rough voice cut in—

"I thought the raging psychopath had a dinner invitation." Frank was at the opposite door, one hand pressed against his injured side. The words could have been a joke, Steve supposed, but there was not so much as a glimmer of light in the man's eyes.

Frank stepped forward, gritting his teeth noticeably.

Steve's instinct was to reach out a hand to help, but he caught himself. Slowly, with this one. Slowly, slowly.

Some hurt took years to unravel.

Steve's eyes flicked to Tony.

"You do," Steve said. "Have a dinner invitation, that is."

Nat hooked a chair with her foot and dragged it back a few inches, and then nodded at Frank.

He looked at her, dark eyes appraising, and then took the offered seat.

This was Nat, offering help in the only way a man like Frank could accept—wordless, from an equal. And this was Nat, making sure that a dangerous wildcard was exactly where she wanted him.

"Um," Peter said. "Hi. I'm Peter. You're"—

He held out a hand, and Tony caught his shoulder. "Sit down for dinner, Peter," he said.

"Frank." Castle's introduction was one word, and then he settled back into his chair and stared straight ahead as if this dinner was just one more grief to endure in a long line of suffering.

Steve sat down beside Castle, and Nat flanked him. Tony sat down gingerly across from him, Peter beside him, and Clint took the head of the table with a glint in his eye.

"How are you feeling?" Clint asked.

Castle grunted.

Bruce entered, followed by two assistants who Steve knew were supposed to be lab assistants—but recently had ended up following Bruce from lab to kitchen.

Bruce sat down at the foot of the table and nodded to Frank. "Mr, Castle," he said amiably, his voice soft.

It took a soft voice to speak to monsters, Steve thought. He caught Bruce's eye gratefully.

It was the quietest dinner that Tony's estate had ever seen.

Castle, for his part, ate ravenously, clearing his plate at least three times.

Nat passed him dishes wordlessly, as Clint tried multiple times to rejuvenate the conversation.

Even Tony, even _Peter_ were quiet.

Peter stared at Castle throughout, his eyes round and wide, and several times he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it again.

Finally, Steve pushed back his chair and stood. He held out his hand for Nat's plate, and she stacked it on his.

Frank pushed back his chair and stood, and the room tensed. He held his plate in a hand that was shaking just a little. "I could help wash up," he said roughly, and Steve bit back a smile.

"Yes," he said, and held up a hand in Tony's direction, where Tony was assuredly about to open his mouth to talk about the staff who were paid to do that. "Thank you."

The room exhaled.

"I'm a superhero," Peter announced, and Clint snorted.

Frank raised an eyebrow.

"I'm Peterman," Peter continued, and then blushed crimson. "Spiderman. Peter. Peter Parker. I have a lot of names, and I've heard yours—my friend MJ says she thinks you could"—

Nat cleared her throat, and Peter stopped.

Steve's eyes were trained on Castle, at the flat line of his mouth, the tense stoop of his shoulders, the unbroken set of his jaw. But his dark, dark eyes—there it was.

A glimmer of light.


	4. Chapter 4

Frank Castle turns a dirty dish over in his hand and pushes back at the space in his mind that turns everything around him into a weapon.

 _Dish. Launched at face._

 _Spoon. Throat._

 _Wash cloth. Shoved inside an open, screaming mouth._

 _Fork. Ear._

 _Knife. Well. That one could go anywhere, really._

"You alright?" Steve cuts him a look that would make most men take a step back.

Frank grunts.

"You don't have to wash the damn dishes, you know."

"I won't be beholden," Frank says through gritted teeth. "Not even to you, Captain."

"You're not." Steve matches his intensity without batting an eye. "Not everything is based on debt. On payback."

This draws a laugh, something that twists on Frank's broken ribs and comes out all ragged. "You know the last person who told me that?"

"Billy Russo?"

The name drives Frank Castle backward, wraps his hands around a knife. "What do you know about Billy Russo?"

Steve sets down the towel he had been using to dry the dishes. "I know he was the buddy at your six," he says. "I know he betrayed you and your family. I know you put two bullets into him when he was dying because you couldn't bear it if anyone else killed him, and you couldn't bear it if he lived, either."

Frank Castle has been at war for over a decade now, but _hell_ if he has ever been shaking this badly. "Then you don't know shit," he says, but the words are a whisper.

A _whisper_.

Steve sighs, a breath of air that nearly shatters Frank. "Maybe I don't know shit," he says. "But I'm willing to bet that you could use a friend."

It's the second time this goddamn soldier has said this to him, and red obscures Frank's vision.

He had loved that about the other hero he'd fought, Red—the devil of Hell's Kitchen, the one who loved to bleed almost as much as Frank did.

 _Give me a reason_ , he begs silently. _One. Goddamn. Reason._

"You won't find an enemy with me," Steve says softly, and it undoes him. "Or a fight."

Frank clenches two hands around the countertop to keep from falling, and the pounding in his head is so loud that he scarcely hears Steve's footsteps, quiet for a man his size, as he leaves Frank alone in the kitchen.

He definitely doesn't hear _Her_ , not until her voice is in his hear, feather light and as cold as the January wind.

"Stay if you want," she says. "Or don't."

There's the tip of something sharp at his back, digging in, and he feels it. He _feels_ it and he welcomes it.

Pain.

A fight.

 _Pain_.

"You're good with a gun," she continues. "And with a grudge. And if Steve believes you can be something more? Well."

The tip edges back, until it is nothing but a ghost of a touch at his back.

"Who am I to say he's wrong?"

He turns to look at Natasha Romanoff, because she might knife him, because she _could_ and he wouldn't complain, not really. He'll die bleeding, anyway, and here—at her hand—in this kitchen—wasn't as bad as it could be, really.

She looks unconcerned.

The dagger in her hand is light, clean, sharp, an extension of her hand. The way his Glock always feels in his own hand.

"What do you think?" It's a smile tugging at his mouth, after all this.

"I heard you shot up a cartel," she says. "The cartel whose product killed a bunch of kids from Queens."

"I shot up a lot of people, ma'am," he shrugs. "You'll need to be more specific."

"In my book," she smiles, but the smile is as sharp as the dagger, dangerous and mesmerizing and terrible. "That makes us on the same side." Her eyes darken. "You're not the only one with red in your ledger."

Frank takes a step forward, a tiny one but a step all the same, until his belly is pressed against the tip of the dagger. It's drawing blood, he knows it, he knows it and he doesn't care—when has he cared? When has he ever cared?

"What did the captain forgive for you?" he asks, and it's not a taunt, even though it sounds like one.

But her eyes soften, so maybe it doesn't sound like a taunt after all. Maybe it just sounds like begging.

"Nothing," she says. "Everything."

He stares at her, uncomprehending. "I'm not staying."

"I know," she says. "But you'll come back."

He freezes, opens his mouth, but she's right, isn't she? She's like him, bloody at all the edges, fragmented somewhere down deep where it matters, and she _knows_.

"He'll offer you _better_ and make you believe in it," she says. "And you'll try, because you know it will hurt him if you don't. Because he loves us. So don't let him love you, Frank Castle." She leans closer, and the dagger is at his throat now, soft and insistent, drawing his blood. "Because if he does, you will hurt him. You will hurt them all. And if you hurt them"—

It hangs in the air, the _I'll kill you_ and he wants to lean forward, he _wants_ so much he would literally bleed out for it.

He thinks of the kid with the bright eyes, and then he lets out a breath that rips through his wounded side with so much pain he is blinded for a moment.

"I'll go," Frank Castle promises, and it's the last good thing he knows how to do. "I'll go."


	5. Chapter 5

Frank Castle had left nothing behind but a rack of clean dishes and a bloody handprint on the wall, and Steve had not gone looking for him, despite everything in him that protested.

He had been a soldier for decades, now—and it cut deep, deeper than he wanted to examine, to leave a wounded Marine to fend for himself.

Steve passed the long hall on the third story of the compound, the one with long windows that opened to the dark woods that stretched through upstate New York.

Castle had not even take the car—he had just disappeared into the forest like the shadow that he was.

He'd bleed out there, or not.

But he'd do it alone, that much he had made clear.

"Steve?"

It was Peter's voice that cut through the suffocating silence. He was standing uncertainly at the entrance to the hall, and he was wearing sweatpants and a comically oversized sweatshirt that Steve recognized as one of his own.

The sweatshirt dwarfed the kid, and the sight coaxed the smallest of smiles to Steve's face.

"You okay?" Steve asked.

Peter took a hesitant step forward, and then walked towards him. He stopped in front of Steve, his eyes dropping, his arms hugged to his chest.

Steve felt a pang of uncertainty, sadness curling inside his rib cage. The kid was open, friendly, endlessly talkative with all the others—with Tony, with Nat, with Clint, with Bruce, especially with Wanda—but with Steve he faltered.

"I wanted to ask—about the Punisher," Peter answered finally. "My friend MJ wants to know if he's going to be an Avenger. If he's going to be part of the team."

Steve let out a breath, his eyes wandering out over the forest again.

What, after all, was the difference between someone who punished and someone who avenged? And was that what they were? Avenging angels, as Tony had once tauntingly implied to Loki? Steve had worked—suffered—ceaselessly to make them more than that.

"No," he said flatly. "That's not what Frank wants."

"But we could"—Peter stopped. "You know, I just thought, since he's from New York too—he would fit right in, I know Nat likes him already and Tony—well, Tony's grumpy but he always comes around, I mean, he came around to you and _you_ were"—he stopped, eyes widening. "Um."

Steve smiled slightly. "It's okay," he said. "I know. But Frank Castle wants to be alone. I think we should respect that."

"I saw—I saw the room he slept in. I saw the bloody handprint, and he was walking like he was hurt and I don't think any of us should just _let_ him go off when he could get hurt. Last time _I_ didn't call in backup and almost get hurt—not even, like, all the way hurt, just almost, which _honestly_ "—

"You," Steve said quietly. "Are a kid. You deserve to be safe. You deserve to have people who make sure you are safe, superhero or not."

"Doesn't Frank?" Peter asked, and the words cut deep. "Doesn't he deserve to be safe?"

Steve sighed. "He doesn't think so," he said. "And I don't think any of us could convince him that he does."

/

Whatever Steve had expected, it was not for Peter to take those words as a challenge. But he had, apparently, taken it as just that, and Steve walked into the dining room the next day just in time to hear him fighting with Tony about it.

" _Steve_ said we should convince him." Peter was standing with his arms folded, his brow furrowed. "And I think he's right! Frank seems like…like he needs help. And we _help_ people. That's why I have this suit. That's why I'm an _Avenger_."

"Yea, and if you go off on some hairbrained mission you won't have that suit for much longer," Tony shot back.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yea, you say that every time."

"Ah, Steve," Tony caught sight of him, and the look he gave Steve had daggers. "Care to explain why you're sending the kid after the fucking Punisher?"

"Peter," Steve said sternly. "If you try that, I will kick your ass myself. Are we clear?"

Peter stared at him in amazement, and then his shoulders hunched in defeat, and Steve felt a pang in his chest.

This, _this_ was why the kid wasn't open, wasn't trusting with Steve the way he was with the others. God _damn_ it.

"Yea," Peter muttered. "Whatever. I knew neither of you would care anyway." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, shoving past Clint as he went.

Clint looked back and forth between Tony and Steve. "What did I miss? Another example of your stellar co-parenting routine?"

Tony choked, and then began coughing, and Steve shot Clint a look.

"Nothing," Steve said. "Come on, both of you. We're debriefing the last op before dinner. Conference room. 10 minutes."

/

The debrief took all of twenty minutes, and it would have been half that if Tony hadn't insisted on interspersing not-subtle-at-all Frank-and-Peter-related digs throughout the entire briefing.

Peter, for his part, didn't show up to the briefing at all.

When Steve finished and the room had emptied, Nat lingered behind.

"I talked to him," she said.

"Peter?"

She shook her head. "Frank. Before he left."

Steve straightened, looked at her closely.

Her face was blank, a closed book, but something flickered in her eyes and he wanted to reach out to her. Wanted to hug her, because he knew this look.

"He'll need our help again," she said.

"Yea?" Steve asked softly.

"Yea," she said. "Do you remember"—

He did.

Whatever she had been about to ask him, whichever op, whichever dark corner of the world they'd gone—together—looking for answers about her past, whichever long night when she couldn't sleep and he stayed up to spar with her—

He remembered.

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the comm link to the conference room crackled to life.

It was Tony's voice, rife with panic and anger. " _Steve_ ," he said. "The kid. Peter is missing."


	6. Chapter 6

Frank Castle is bleeding again—at least, he thinks he might be. Maybe it's the other asshole's blood. Maybe it's both.

He doesn't care.

It's a mark, a mission, a cartel full of scum that needed to do the world a favor and die.

He doesn't care.

He _doesn't_.

The cartel Natasha Romanoff had congratulated him for shooting up—they weren't finished yet. He'd gotten most of their leadership into one room and executed them, and that's how he'd ended up bleeding on a roof and falling into the hands of the Avengers.

But they were still here, and their kingpin—someone who had managed to remain anonymous despite the growing prominence of the Mercy cartel—was still alive.

And as long as the king remained, the cartel remained. And as long as the cartel remained, the Punisher punished.

Only now—a day after sitting at the same table as Steve Goddamn Rogers—Frank is bleeding again and not caring.

It's the butt of a gun smashing the end of his nose, broken so many times, and it's a knee to the ribs, and it's an elbow to his jaw, and it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Frank fights back, machine that is, his own elbow making contact with the asshole's jaw—the _crack_ isn't satisfying like he wants it to be, just hollow.

Asshole #2 has the gun, and then he doesn't. Asshole #2 is breathing, and then he isn't.

Asshole #3 looks scared, and then he still looks scared but not breathing, and then it's quiet in the warehouse at the edge of the city and it's just Frank and his heartbeat and for a moment—

Just a moment—

He thinks it's just one more sound to silence.

Asshole #3 looks young.

Asshole #3 reminds him of Billy.

And then, for the first time in years, Frank Castle staggers outside to vomit at the overwhelming scent of blood.

/

He's been staying in this hostel, cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors and glaring at guests who stir up trouble in exchange for a room there.

He stumbles back there, not bothering to clean the blood from his face.

The hostel owner, Margo, she doesn't ask questions. He likes that about her. About Hell's Kitchen.

There isn't much in his room, not really. He moves around too much to have anything that matters, but there are three pictures, two wallet size and one a little bigger. A picture of him and Curtis, lifetimes ago. The bigger picture, Frank and a family he barely, barely remembers (he remembers love and he remembers fear and he remembers being ripped apart but he does not, _does not_ remember how they felt in his arms or how they laughed or bickered or sounded when they sang along to the radio in the car). And—one of the kid, grinning cheekily over her shoulder as if she'd just dropped a smartass comment on Frank and was about to walk away.

Amy.

Frank pushes the picture into his pocket with the others.

He hasn't checked up on her.

He won't.

She deserves a chance to be better, to be more than he is.

Frank sighs, rinses blood off his hands in the little sink in the corner of the room, splashes water on his face until the water doesn't run as red, and then sinks down onto the narrow bed that groans beneath him.

Damn Steve Rogers and damn the Avengers and damn the cartel and damn them _all_.

There is a flutter, a _whisper_ of a breath, and Frank Castle opens his eyes, fingers already closing over his Glock, and then he drops it and swears loudly.

Peter Parker is on his ceiling, staring down at him.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve Rogers had not felt true panic since the day—well. Since Bucky, that first time. And since Bucky, that second time.

And—

That third time, when Bucky turned to ash in his arms. It's just an echo of memory now, a different universe, a different ending. Steve remembers it all the same, just as Tony and Nat do.

But what he felt at Tony's words was something deeper, wilder, more terrifying. The kid.

The _kid_.

"What the hell is going on?" Steve's hands closed over Tony's shoulders as soon as Tony entered the room. "What do you mean he's _gone_? _Where_?"

"I don't know." Tony's voice buckled, cracked. "I've hacked all the cameras in the state of New York, public and private, and satellite feeds, and everything else, and we'll have results soon, we'll _have_ to but he's gone"—

"Tony." Steve steeled himself because he had to. Because if Tony was going to fall apart, Steve couldn't. If Steve fell apart, they'd all fall apart, and it was a luxury Steve couldn't afford.

It was a luxury he could never afford. Even Nat, always calm, always collected, was three shades paler than she had been a moment ago.

"Tony, breathe." Steve said it like an order—and when he gave orders, men listened.

Tony breathed.

"Tell me what happened." Steve made his voice soft, even, firm. _Calm_ , he told his rapidly beating heart. _Now_.

But it was _Peter_.

"He snuck out," Tony said, and annoyance and pride mingled with his panic for a moment. "While we were in your _goddamn_ debriefing. Because _you_ convinced him it would be a good idea to go after the fucking _Punisher_."

Steve didn't bother to point out that he had, in fact, told Peter in no uncertain terms _not_ to go after the fucking Punisher. That Peter was doing this because he thought it was right, or to piss Tony off, or some combination of the two.

"He can't be far," Steve said. "That was half an hour ago."

"He took the suit," Tony said.

"The _suit_? _Your_ suit?" Steve stared at him. "How?"

"He managed to override my security protocols," Tony was a shade paler, whether from the knowledge that Peter had outsmarted him or that Peter was currently using his most prized possession, Steve wasn't sure.

Steve swore loudly, a string of curses that would have delighted Clint if he had been present. "He's grounded for the rest of his life," he said. "Come on. We're going back to the city."

Nat nodded. "I'll comm Clint and Wanda. And I can fly the bird."

"He's got a head start, and the new suit is _fast_ ," Tony said. "He's probably already there."

"Breathe," Steve ordered again. "We'll bring him back."

"Do we even know where we're going?" Tony asked. "Does Peter? I'll keep us hooked up to the sat feeds, but"—

"I know where Frank Castle stays," Nat said coolly, and then she was gone.

Steve sighed.

Of course she did.

He had made the executive decision _not_ to keep tabs on Frank Castle's living situation, in an attempt to respect the man's clear desire to remain alone.

But this was Nat, and Nat kept people in two categories: family, and threats.

She kept both of them close.

/

They didn't make it to the quinjet that was waiting for them on the landing pad, because just as they were exiting the building, they saw both of them:

Frank Castle, striding down the long driveway towards them, one hand hooked around the back of Peter's neck as he hauled him forward—and Peter, for his part, looked like a deeply indignant puppy.

Tony, in one of his other suits, raised a hand, blasters ready. "Let him go."

Steve raised a hand. "Easy," he told Tony softly. "I don't think that's necessary."

"I think you lost something," Frank snarled, lifting Peter off the ground with one hand.

Peter kicked helplessly and shouted something obscene at Frank, who responded by shaking him.

"If I were you," Frank grunted, dropping Peter and then shoving him forward towards them. "I'd keep a better eye on my damn nosy kid."

"Is that a threat?" Tony pushed Peter behind them, ignoring Peter's immediate protest.

"No, asshole," Frank said. "Should it be?"

Steve stepped forward. "Thank you for bringing the kid back," he said quietly. He held out his hand.

Frank hesitated, and then he shook Steve's hand, his grip firm. When he stepped back, his eyes were as dark as the night around them. "I had kids once," he said. "Two of them."

Steve felt the words hit like a blow, and he stilled, waiting for Frank to say more.

"I lived a dangerous life," Frank said. "They got caught up in it, and I lost them. Don't make my mistake."

Steve nodded once, shortly, fighting back the words he wanted to say, the ones where he told Frank that what had happened to his family wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known—

But Frank was already walking away.

"Do you want a ride?" Nat's voice cut the space between them like a knife.

Frank glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked. "You know where we're going?"

"Yes," she said, and smirked.

The man's eyes clouded. "Do they?"

"No," Nat answered. "I make it a point to know more than anyone else in the room with me." She glanced at Tony, her lips quirking. "They don't make it hard for me."

Frank snorted, and then turned to her. "Then yea," he said. "I'd appreciate the lift."

"Tony," Steve said. "Take the kid inside. Clint, Wanda, I'll see you in there."

When they were gone—Peter still protesting—Steve stepped forward. "I'm not going to intrude on your flight," he told Frank. "And I'm not going to ask Nat where you're going. But Peter—can you tell me what he wanted?" He fell into step beside Frank, his stride matching the other man's.

Behind them, Nat moved soundlessly over the concrete towards the quinjet.

Mirth bled into Frank's expression. "Honestly, Captain?" he said. "I wasn't really listening."

Steve stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

"The Mercy cartel," he said. "You've heard of them?"

Natasha lets out a breath, a hiss of air.

"Yes," Steve said. "You shot half of them."

"Shot some more of 'em tonight," Frank said, swinging up into the Quinjet. "But their kingpin, I don't know who he is or where he is. He's a ghost, and he's gunning for me. But tonight, it was your kid hanging off my ceiling"—

"He was on your ceiling?" Steve cut in, and then pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt his Peter-induced headache beginning to build. "God _damn_ it."

Nat snorted, and then she swung up into the Quinjet too. There was something in her face—a shift, the smallest of shifts as she moved past Frank towards the pilot's chair.

Something a little like hope, as if she'd just learned something about Frank Castle she hadn't known before.

"I'm sorry about the kid," Steve said. "I'll make sure"—

"You better," Frank cut him off. "Because those men gunning for me? They're not gonna care if a kid in a colorful suit gets in the way."

An odd, cold weight settled in Steve's stomach, the shadow of a premonition tugging at the edge of his consciousness. "How did you get him off the ceiling?" he asked, and he saw the smirk tugging at Nat's mouth.

"Dragged him off by the scruff of his neck," Frank answered, settling into his chair and leaning back, body drooping with exhaustion. "He made a lot of noise. But to answer your question, Captain, I wasn't listening and I have no idea what he wanted."

Steve nodded slowly. "I'll talk to the kid," he said. "I'm sorry he bothered you tonight."

"Don't be sorry, Captain," Frank's eyes locked on his. "Be sure. Sure your kid knows you mean business about this. Because tonight I almost blew his damn head off. With the next asshole he sneaks up on—he's not gonna be so lucky."


	8. Chapter 8

Natasha Romanoff knows where he lives, and that's both a little terrifying and a little flattering.

She lands the Quinjet on a nearby rooftop—one Tony owns, she tells him idly—and walks with him down the quiet alley towards the hostel.

"I never saw you," he says finally.

"No," she says. "You wouldn't have."

"I've known stealthy people," he pauses outside the hostel, the night obscuring his face and hers. "And I know when I'm being followed. But I never saw you."

Her smile cuts the darkness, white teeth showing in a grin that looks almost feral. "I didn't have to follow you," she says. "Karen Page did that."

Then she turns and walks away, leaving him frozen in place.

 _Karen_.

Damn her tenacity and damn her ability to catch him unawares, every single time.

Frank turns, finally, shoulders hunching in exhaustion. He had lied to Steve Rogers, not for the first time—and probably not for the last, either.

He had listened to the kid. To everything he said.

Peter Parker had wanted him to become an Avenger. The kid had a long list: stop killing, start turning in the bad guys—yes, the kid had used the label "bad guys"—to the police, listen to Steve (kid was a goddamn hypocrite), and then something about matching suits and team missions and training all together in Tony Goddamn Stark's house.

"Keep your kid away from me," Frank growls, and even though Natasha Romanoff is gone—disappeared like smoke—he knows somehow she hears him.

He knows somehow she will do what she must to keep the goddamn kid safely away from him.

His footsteps slow, linger outside the hostel. It's quiet tonight—must not be many guests. Frank wonders idly if Margo, the owner, is even in tonight. He hopes she isn't, that she's taking a night off.

The night air isn't fresh, but it's cool and Frank welcomes each lungfuls.

Karen—the Avengers—the Mercy cartel—the kid.

His fingers close over his Glock, tension and metal and the lingering scent of blood—these things knit him back together.

 _Karen_.

What would the harm be, really, in seeing her one more time? He could go now, find her old apartment. She'd open when he knocked, and she'd be standing there: in her sweatpants and tank top, maybe, or still dressed sharply in her black skirt and blazer. She'd look at him and _see_ him, and he'd look at her and _see_ her, the way they always had.

She had killed a man.

He saw it in her eyes—he could read death there, sure as night—and that broken part of him, twisted beyond all recognition, loved her for it.

Frank leans against the alley wall, delaying his entrance into the hostel just a moment longer.

All of this—he doesn't know where to begin.

Doesn't know if he should just get out of this damn city once and for all. Doesn't know if he _could_ , when it comes down to it, or if he will always end up here, in this city that calls his name in the wind and the skyscrapers and the gunshots and the gulls.

New York.

He moves to open the hostel door without thought, but his body tenses immediately. It's unlocked, after hours.

It's _open_ , cracked just a little.

 _Fuck_.

His body moves into the lobby like he's entering a war zone, but he's not, he's not: the war is over before he got there, and Margo is slumped over the front desk, a hole in the center of her forehead and there's some dumb kid with a backpack dead at her feet where he got shot checking into this shitty quiet hostel in Hell's Kitchen.

He knows with knowing, sees without seeing, that they came, this cartel came for him and shot everyone else in the place when they could not find him—

He'll open the doors, he'll see all the bodies they left, he'll feel it again, the void opening wide.

He'll follow the cartel, he'll empty his bullets, he'll rage and he'll shout and he'll bleed and he'll bleed.

He'll punish.

He _will_.

Frank Castle has always been broken, but he has always been able to move, to fight, to kill. But tonight—after all of it; Karen Page and Avengers and cartels and the kid who had asked for too much—all he can do is stand in the middle of the blood-soaked lobby and shake as if he will never stop.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony was still raging at the kid when Steve re-entered the house, and Steve suppressed a sigh. There was so much of Howard in Tony these days—or maybe all of Howard's shitty parenting came out when Tony was angry with the kid.

When Tony forgot the way his words would cut Peter down—or worse, when he didn't forget.

"Tony," Steve said quietly, and they both turned to him.

Peter was pale-faced and stubborn and wide-eyed, and Tony was—

Terrified.

They were the three who were cursed to remember: Tony, Steve, Nat. They had watched their friends turn to ash in front of them. They had fought time and gods and monsters to get them all back. But they remembered.

And Tony—

Well, Tony had held Peter when Peter disintegrated in his arms.

Steve's hand found Tony's shoulder. "Can I talk to Peter?" he asked gently, and all the fight rushed out of Tony's face.

"The kid said earlier that _you_ gave him the idea to go after the Punisher," Tony said, but there was no real venom there, not when Steve wouldn't give him a fight.

"I did _not_ "—Peter began, but Steve clamped his free hand down on Peter's shoulder, maybe a little harder than strictly necessary, and Peter shut up.

"You're grounded for the rest of your life," Tony added, one last look at Peter. "And you're not touching a suit—my suit or your suit or anyone's suit—as long as I'm around to stop you."

Peter opened his mouth again, but Steve raised an eyebrow at him.

"Come with me," Steve told Peter quietly, but it was an order and by the slump in Peter's shoulders he knew it, too. He trailed Steve by several feet, his head ducked.

Steve had to resist the urge to reach back and ruffle the kid's messy hair. Now, he told himself firmly, was not the time.

The kid followed him down the long corridor to his office, and then stood uncomfortably at the door when Steve entered and sat down at his desk.

"Peter," Steve said. "Come inside. Shut the door behind you."

Peter did as he was told, but by now he was a shade paler than he had been.

Steve gave him a long, hard look—

And, predictably, Peter cracked immediately. "Please don't kick me out of the Avengers," he blurted. "Please don't fire me and have Happy keep me away from all of you. Please"—

"No one's getting kicked out," Steve cut him off, and the kid let out his breath in a _whoosh_ of air.

"Thank you," Peter said rapidly. "I mean, I didn't know because Tony said those things about the suit and he always says things but this time he was serious and then he walked away and _left_ and you made me come all the way down to your office and that seemed serious too"—

"I wasn't finished," Steve said, and Peter gulped in a lungful of air and then immediately hiccupped. Steve forced back a smile. _Be sure_ , Frank Castle had said, and this time the man was right. _Be sure your kid knows you mean business about this_.

"Steve?" Peter asked, and his voice was smaller than before. He cleared his throat. "Um, I mean, Mr. Rogers?"

"Sit down," Steve said.

Peter faltered, and then sat down in the chair across from Steve.

"You were right about one thing," he said. "I _am_ serious. I am very, very serious about keeping you safe. And what you did tonight was—no, Peter, let me finish." He could see the torrent of words rising to the surface, but he shook his head at the boy. "If we're going to be a team, we need to trust each other. And we need to listen to each other. And tonight, you decided not to do either."

Peter flinched as if Steve had struck him, and his shoulders hunched over.

"Do you trust me?"

Peter's head snapped up. "Of course I trust you!"

"Tonight," Steve said. "When you went after the Punisher, your actions told Tony and me that you didn't trust either of us. There's a lot you don't know about Frank Castle and his circumstances. There are men after him. Men who could have hurt or killed you."

Peter's shoulders slumped even lower. "I can take care of myself," he protested, but it was barely more than a whisper.

Steve reached out and laid a hand on Peter's arm. "I know that," Steve said. "But for now, you're off missions until"—

Peter shot out of the chair, eyes wild. "You said you weren't kicking me out! You _said_ "—he stopped abruptly and turned away, and it took everything in Steve not to reach out and pull the kid into a hug then and there.

"No one's getting kicked out," Steve repeated softly. "You'll stay with us. You'll train with us. And you'll go on missions with us again."

"When?" Peter asked roughly, and Steve's heart clenched at the tears clearly hiding in the kid's voice. "What do I have to do prove myself? To—to make you happy with me?"

"Trust me," Steve said.

Peter opened his mouth and shut it again, his fingers curling into fists. "I do," he said. "I _do_."

 _Be sure_ , Frank had said.

Steve's chest ached. Advice from a man who had once had a son who would be Peter's age if he had lived. _If he had lived_.

Steve sighed deeply and stood, and Peter stood, too, scraping the back of his hand over his eyes. "Peter"—

"I'm sorry," the kid burst out, and Steve ached to go back on what he'd just told him.

But the memory—so many friends, turned to dust. Frank Castle's children, gunned down in front of him.

Steve hooked a hand under Peter's elbow and pulled him close, his embrace crushing. The kid was trembling in his arms, but he leaned into Steve's shoulder and let himself be held. "Trust me," Steve said again, his voice soft, but he could not erase the images from his mind—Bucky, saying _Steve?_ in that lost, confused voice that would haunt Steve forever. He hadn't been there when they lost Peter, and Tony had spoken of it once, _once_ , but Steve could imagine it now as he held the kid close.

 _Trust me. Please._

Because for all the wars Steve Rogers had fought and all the gods and monsters he had faced, there was weakness beneath his rib cage and he knew:

He could not lose one more.


End file.
